


Remember Yesterday

by Ryomou



Category: IT - Stephen King, The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crossover, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, First Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-12-28 13:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryomou/pseuds/Ryomou
Summary: Two twin beds, two tiny dressers, two desks, and only about two feet of space between them. He and his roommate are going to be living practically on top of each other.orStan has spent his entire high school career preparing for college, but his textbooks never taught him how to handle someone like Boris Pavlikovsky.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beatles_and_Bellarke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatles_and_Bellarke/gifts), [porcia_catonis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcia_catonis/gifts), [SpicyWolfsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyWolfsbane/gifts), [Evanaissante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanaissante/gifts).

> Inspired by the postcards & hummingbirds series created by Beatles_and_Bellarke, Evanaissante, porcia_catonis, and SpicyWolfsbane. (Don't forget their Storis archive sputnikolibri on tumblr)  
Come scream about things with me @buttercupkaspbrak

“It came.”

The commotion that is movie night at Bill’s immediately stops, almost as if Stan hit the pause button on the VCR. Eddie has popcorn in his hair and Richie’s standing on the couch, arm raised high with another handful clenched in his fist. Bill’s between them, already looking tired even though the night has barely started.

“It came? What came?” Richie asks.

“You mean _it_?” Bev asks from her spot in the recliner. Stan nods, and everything’s a flurry of motion again. Everybody crowds him, talking at once, but he can’t hear anything over Eddie shrieking:

“Let me fucking see! Let me see it, Stanley!”

“It’s in my—”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before Richie’s pulling his bag open for him, and the unopened envelope gets passed from hand to hand to hand, before making its way to Mike.

“You haven’t opened it yet?” he asks, his voice a calming wave in the chaos.

Stan just shakes his head.

“Here,” he holds it out, “why don’t you do the honors?”

But Stan’s nervous. He knows that he shouldn’t be—has no reason to be—but he’s nervous all the same. Mike, bless him, can see this, in his eyes and on his face and he gives Stan a gentle smile.

“You want me to do it?” he offers.

“Please?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but anyone that knows Stanley knows that over the last two years, there’s very little he’s come to fear more than failure. And failure could be inside that envelope, and he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“Okay.”

All the Losers hush each other loudly and look at Mike with ecstatic eyes as he tears the envelope open.

“Dear Mr. Uris,” he starts.

“Oh my God, that’s _you_,” Richie says, giving Stan a shake.

“Shut up, Richie!” Eddie snaps.

“Dear Mr. Uris,” Mike repeats, “We are pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because everybody’s screaming.

“You got in, you got in, you got in!” Bev chants.

“As if there was ever any doubt,” Mike laughs.

Richie ruffles his hair while Bill hugs him tight enough to squeeze the air from his lungs.

“It’s happening! We’re d-doing this!” Bill shouts in his ear.

“We’re all going to NYU!” Eddie shrieks.

* * *

Bev and Stan pull the short straw when it comes to roommates. Ben wants the full college experience, so he _chooses _a random assignment. Bev doesn’t have much of a choice, being the only girl, and Stan, well…it turns out Stan’s really bad at rock, paper, scissors. He knows that if he pressed it, Mike would let him room with Bill, but he doesn’t want to do that to his friend. He knows that Mike is nervous about starting school with people for the first time, and after a lifetime of homeschooling, being able to come back to something familiar can only be a good thing.

That’s why Stan’s here, arms laden with boxes, with Bill on one side and Eddie on the other, anxiously staring at the nameplate next to door 231. Stanley Uris and Boris Pavlikovsky.

“T-think your r-roommate’s an exchange s-student?” Bill asks.

“Maybe,” Stan says.

“What kind of last name is that anyway?” Richie asks from behind them. Eddie jumps, spilling some of his cleaning supplies onto the floor.

“What the fuck, Richie?! I thought you were with Bev!”

Richie ignores him in favor of trying to pronounce Pavlikovsky with different inflections.

“PAV-likovsky. Pav-LI-kovsky. PAVLI-kov-SKY.”

“He c-could be in there. What if he can h-hear you?”

“Good, then he can tell me how to say his name,” Richie replies, stomping past Stan to burst through the door, leaving it open behind him. “Oh my God, he’s a communist!”

“Richie!” Stan scolds, scandalized.

“Relax, Staniel, he’s not here. But, really—” he points to a wall they can’t see from the hallway. “he’s a communist.”

Stan shares a _look _with Eddie and Bill before following Richie into the room. It’s small, with two of everything. Two twin beds, two tiny dressers, two desks, and only about two feet of space between them. He and his roommate are going to be living practically on top of each other.

“See?” Richie urges, and Stan’s eyes follow where his finger is pointing, only to be met with a startling red and yellow flag spanning the length of the wall.

“Wow,” Bill breathes.

“Yeah, you get to look at that every day, Stan my Man.”

“Maybe you can switch roommates?” Eddie suggests.

“H-he might not b-be bad, j-just because he has—”

“Questionable morals and values?” again from Eddie. Bill stares at him.

“I was going to s-say different p-political opinions. Just b-because he has different political o-opinions doesn’t m-mean he’s bad.”

“It wouldn’t look right if I asked the RA for a room change on the first day anyway,” Stan says.

“Y-yeah.”

“Well then,” Richie says with a clap, “lets make this room home!” And he flops his gangly body onto Stan’s bare mattress.

“That is so disgusting, do you have any idea how many _germs_—”

“Don’t remind me,” Stan interrupts.

He busies himself by unpacking his clothes, sorting them by color and size in his dresser while Eddie tackles the baseboards with Clorox and a pair of rubber gloves. Bill unloads his books and, under Stanley’s careful instruction, hangs his framed photographs of Maine’s rarest birds. Richie eats Cheetos and gets cheese dust on his desk.

It’s half past six when they’re finally finished, Stan’s bed made with clean blue sheets and a matching comforter, books organized alphabetically by author and again by title, school supplies stacked neatly and ready for the coming day.

His roommate is still missing, and Stan finds it odd that the only sign that he’s even been here is the bright flag on the wall. There are no sheets, no clothes, no books—nothing to give anybody an idea of who he is or where he is or when he’s coming back.

“Do you think he’ll mind that I have people over?” Stan asks as the four of them crowd around a cheese pizza in the middle of the room. They’re all in their socks, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Your roommate?” Eddie asks at the same time Richie says, “Who cares?”

“I t-think it’ll be a-alright, I m-mean—”

Boris Pavlikovsky picks that moment to waltz in. Except, he doesn’t waltz so much as stumble, and from several feet away Stan can smell the sharp scent of alcohol and the pungent smell of cigarettes. He shouts something from his bowed over position, possibly a greeting, lilting and high, but Stan ignores it in favor of taking in the filthy tangled mess of black hair and the tattered red sweater that almost reaches his knees.

_This _is his roommate?

Then, his roommate, this Boris, stands upright, and Stan’s brain stops computing for several seconds.

Because it’s Richie.

But it’s not.

But it is.

But it’s not.

Same eyes, same nose, same lips, but he’s too thin, bordering on gaunt, and his cheekbones are too prominent, his jawline too sharp, and there are no glasses, no bug eyes, no joking grin.

“What the fuck?” Richie whispers, and Stan whips his head around to face him, but Richie’s on his feet. They’re the same height, with the same wild curls, Boris is just dirtier.

“What the fuck!” Richie says again, louder this time. Boris is dark where Richie is light. Dark, stormy eyes, dark clothes, dark smile spreading across his face, where Richie is bright Hawaiian prints and mirth and life.

“What the fuck is happening?” Eddie asks, and Stan can’t help but notice he sounds afraid. A part of him is afraid too.

“That’s my fucking face!” Richie yells.

“HA!” Boris laughs.


	2. Chapter 2

Richie’s been on the phone with his parents for twenty minutes. It’s one of the payphones in the hallway on the first floor, and people are staring as they walk by because Richie is openly _sobbing_ as Stan rubs his back in soothing circles. They can only hear one side of the conversation, but it doesn’t take a genius to tell that none of it is good.

“What do you mean I’m adopted?!”

And

“When were you going to tell me?!”

And

“Why didn’t they want me?”

And

“How could you lie to me…my whole life…?”

Stan feels like his heart is breaking, and from the crestfallen look on Eddie and Bill’s faces, he can tell they feel the same. Richie screams through his clenched teeth and swings the receiver downward like he wants to slam it into the shelf holding the phonebook, but he stops himself. His knuckles are white, and his cheeks and nose are stained pink, and his magnified eyes are wet and red.

“It’s okay, Rich,” Eddie sooths, coming from behind Stan to place gentle fingers over Richie’s own, guiding the phone carefully into it’s resting place. It may not have been time to hang up, his parents could have still been on the line, but right now that doesn’t matter. What matters is the utter devastation written in the line of Richie’s slumped shoulders and the pure exhaustion radiating from him in waves.

“Let’s go,” Stan urges, hand still between his friend’s shoulder blades, guiding him down the hall.

“Should we go back to our room or your room?” Richie asks, and his voice is so flat it’s terrifying.

“Why would we go back to my room?” Stan questions.

“Because of m-my b-br…” he cuts himself off in a sob. Covers his mouth. Tries again. “He should know too, right?”

“We can w-worry about that l-later,” Bill assures him.

They walk in silence for a few moments, taking the stairs, intending to go up to the third floor where Richie and Eddie’s room is. Instead, once they’re at the second-floor landing, Richie darts towards the door and out of their grasp.

“Richie!" Stan shouts. They all follow him. He’s making a line directly to Stan’s room, walking quickly, borderline running, hell bent on confronting his roommate.

“Richie,” Eddie pleads frantically, “I don’t think now’s the best time. Why don’t we just go upstairs, and you can lay down and—”

“Eds,” Richie wheels around, putting his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. His face is solemn and serious, two things that have never once been associated with Richard Tozier. “I have to do this. Please, let me do this.”

Stan can count on his fingers the number of times Richie’s said please when asking for something.

Eddie’s eyes are wide, face completely lost.

“Okay…” he mumbles.

Richie nods.

Bill gives Stan a look that indicates he thinks this is a terrible idea as they follow their friend back to Stan’s dorm, but all he can do is give a half-hearted shrug. Once Richie’s set on something, there’s no changing his mind, even when he’s like this. Maybe especially when he’s like this.

“Staniel, key.”

He doesn’t know when they got to room 231, too stuck inside his head with worry to notice, but he obediently passes his key to Richie who opens the door without his usual fanfare.

Boris is still there, and he looks better. Kind of.

He’s lounging on his mattress, which is still bare, and his hair is damp and curling around his neck and his ears. His sweater’s been exchanged for a large, dark t-shirt that hangs loosely over his prominent collar bones and a pair of flannel pajama pants. He eyes them with mild, and surprisingly sober, curiosity as they pile in sitting single file on the edge of Stan’s bed. Stan can’t help but notice the dark circles underneath his eyes; he looks like he hasn’t slept in _weeks_.

Boris sits up too, back resting against the flag on his wall.

“Who is Stanley?” he asks, and his accent is odd and hard to place.

“Me,” Stan says, immediately feeling stupid for the way he lifts his hand. “This is Eddie,” he continues, pointing to the smaller boy next him. “Bill.” At least Bill lifts his hand too, which makes Stan feel a little better. “And that’s Richie.”

“Ah. The twin.”

Richie gives a wry sort of grin.

“That’s me. Turns out I’m a mail order baby, all the way from Russia.”

“_What?_” Eddie’s looking at Richie in shock.

“We s-should have t-talked about this f-first,” Bill whispers. Richie acts like he doesn’t hear him.

“You adopted too?” he asks.

Boris shakes his head.

Richie laughs, jarring and cold.

“So, some Russian lady just didn’t want me and sent me away?”

“Didn’t want me either. Easier for her to leave than send me away.”

“And you grew up with…?”

“Our father.”

“Right. Great.”

Boris looks very somber, and he seems eons older than his true age.

“This American family that took you, they were good to you?”

“I…they _lied _to me. My entire life, they lied to me and made me think I was theirs.”

“Not what I asked. They were good to you? Food to eat? Place to live?”

“I mean, yeah. They’ve…they’ve always been good parents, but,”

“Then be grateful.”

Richie is appalled.

“Be _grateful_? They told me I was their son, and I’m not! I mean, my mom used to tell me stories about bringing me home from the hospital, and they were all lies! What the hell do you know—”

“If family goes through the trouble of adopting, then that is proof enough that they love you. Very few are so lucky as you, Richard.”

There’s a tense silence before, “Ew, don’t fucking call me Richard.”

“Is your name, no?”

“No, just call me Richie, dude.”

“I feel like we shouldn’t be listening to this,” Eddie whispers in Stan’s ear. He nods. A part of him wishes that he could leave the room, but another part of him wants to stay and be there for Richie in case he needs the support.

“What’s…what’s our dad like?”

“Now? Dead.”

“Oh,” Richie rubs his hand over his mouth. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Better off.”

“Wait, like, he’s better off dead or you’re better off with him dead?”

Boris shrugs.

“Both.”

“When did it happen? If it’s okay that I ask that? Can I ask that?”

“Years ago,” Boris says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Like I said, better off.”

“What did you do?” Eddie questions, then he covers his mouth as if to swallow the words back up. “Shit, sorry. This is between you two, ignore me.”

“No, what did you do?” Richie repeats. “Did you go live with family?”

“Doesn’t matter what happened then. What matters is now. After all, I ended up here, yeah?”

Suddenly, Boris scrambles of his bed and starts digging through his dresser.

“Aha! Here!” He pulls out a clear bottle. “A drink to my new brother and new friends.”

“Doesn’t our dorm have a zero-tolerance policy?” Stan asks, alarmed.

Richie tips his head back and laughs, this one more joyous than the last.

“Only if you’re caught, Staniel.”

Boris drinks straight from the bottle and passes it to Richie, who chokes the moment the liquid touches his tongue.

“What the fuck is that?!”

“Vodka,” Boris answers. “Straight from Russia. Keeps you warm in winter.”

“I can see why, shit tastes like fire.”

“HA!”

Richie tries to pass it to Eddie, but he recoils, muttering about saliva and bacteria and “over fifty percent of adults have herpes and most of them don’t even know.”

“Did you just accuse me of having herpes?” Richie fixes Eddie in place with a dead eyed stare.

“You wouldn’t even _know_!”

Stan reaches over Eddie’s lap to grab the bottle and passes it to Bill. He handles the alcohol about as well as Richie had, choking and coughing his way through it before handing it back to Boris, who takes another swig as smoothly as water.

“None for you?” Boris inquires.

It takes Stan a moment to realize the question is directed at him.

“Oh. No. I don’t drink.”

“Never?”

Stan shakes his head.

“Stan the Man’s waiting until he’s twenty-one like a good boy.”

Boris’s lips curve upward in the kind of smirk that makes Stan want to defend himself.

“I just don’t see what the big deal is. There’s no point in breaking the law over something stupid.”

The other boy looks ready to laugh.

Stan is suddenly furious.

“_What_?” he demands.

“R-relax,” Bill says. “N-nobody’s saying anything. We d-don’t care if you want to w-wait, Stan.”

Boris is still smiling, watching Stanley with glassy, interested eyes, his gaze so heavy he might as well be touching him with his hands.

It’s weird.

It’s unnerving.

He feels like he can’t breathe.

Then Richie’s talking about Eddie’s aversion to all things gross and Eddie’s chiming in with disease facts and statistics and it feels like Stan imagined it all. But his heart is pounding in his chest, he’s not imagining that. Why though? Because a boy that looks like he’s never slept in his life stared at him too long?

Stan takes inhales deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, brushes off the feeling as the stress of the whole day. Moving to a new state, starting a new school, meeting his new roommate, finding out that roommate is his best friend’s long-lost brother...They’re all major changes, and he’s just...he’s exhausted. That’s all.

He sinks into his head after that and thinks about the synagogue he found when he first got into the city. It looks very nice, and it’s not far from campus; his parents would be pleased with it, he thinks. He’s never been anywhere outside of his father’s, and he’s a little bit excited to see the difference between a large congregation and the very small one that’s built up around Derry. He might even make friends there and become a part of a bustling Jewish community. Stan likes the idea.

Eddie smacks Stan in the center of his chest with the back of his hand, rambling on about lunch tomorrow and Ben and Bev and Mike, and hey, what if Boris joins them, they could all get Chinese. Stan listens halfheartedly until Eddie leans over him to speak to Bill, and he immediately tunes them out again, drifting back into the hazy fog of his thoughts before a loud, “HA” rips him right back out.

“Your friend, I think he is tired.”

It isn’t until Boris says it that Stan realizes that he’s right. His eyelids are drooping, and he has no idea when it started. He wants to crawl under his covers and sleep for the next five years.

“Oh, yeah, Stan’s an old man. He goes to bed at like…eight,” Richie says.

“Shut up, Richie,” Stan retorts, but there’s no bite to it.

“W-we should get g-going.”

Stan says goodbye to his friends with promises to meet them all downstairs first thing tomorrow. And, without any prompting or hesitation, he hugs Richie goodnight. When the door swings shut, he’s hit full force with the knowledge that this is his very first time alone with Boris, and if there’s ever a time to make a good impression, it’s now.

He grabs his shower supplies and flees to the bathroom without a word.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never give up on Storis.  
This is just a tiny thing because finals are destroying me.

Stanley comes back to the room to find Boris kneeling on his bed examining one of the many bird pictures he has hanging on the wall. He cringes at the thought of his comforter wrinkling under the other boys’ knees. He busies himself by putting away his shower things, sorting them again and again, just to buy time until he thinks of something polite to say.

“What is this one?” Boris asks. When Stan turns, he is pointing to a photograph Stan has taken himself rather than one of the rare ones that he’s purchased. It’s an older one from one of his many Boy Scout expeditions.

“The white-crowned sparrow,” Stan replies. He moves to stand behind the other boy, admiring his collection. He does not consider himself a proud person, but he is proud of this.

“You like birds.” It is not a question.

Stan hums his confirmation.

“Why?”

Well…nobody’s ever asked him _that_ before. It’s just a widely accepted fact that Stan likes birds. Always has, for as long as he can remember. He’s taken his every single one of his friends birdwatching more times then he can count, and even though none of them particularly enjoy it, they tolerate it, because it’s something that Stan loves—maybe even more than loves. He _thrives _on it.

“I…”

Why does Stan like birds?

“A lot of reasons, I guess.”

Boris turns to look at him, eyes dancing, mirthful.

“Like?” he presses. Stan hesitates. “Come, don’t be shy. Want to know. Why birds?”

“I mean, I’ve never really thought about it, but…They fly.”

“HA!”

“No, I mean it. Some of them fly hundreds of miles to migrate without ever having to stop—without ever getting tired. And they live on every continent, in every climate. They have to be some of the most adaptable, resilient creatures out there, don’t you think?” Stan doesn’t wait for an answer. “And they talk. Parrots can communicate with humans in a way that no other animal can. And the crow can mimic human tones and voice patterns.”

Now that Stan’s gotten started, he can’t quite stop.

“And their anatomy is fascinating. Did you know that their coats are waterproof? They produce an oil that they preen over their feathers. It keeps them prepared for the weather. They have hollow bones too, and two stomachs. But, my favorite thing is the binocular vision. A lot of birds see like we do. With both eyes, I mean. But hawks and eagles, they have eyes that move independent of each other, so they can see in two different directions at the same time. It helps them hunt…” he trails off, suddenly self-conscious at his rambling. “Sorry.”

But Boris is smiling, a soft, patient thing, as if he’s truly interested in everything Stan has to say.

“Sorry? Why ‘sorry’? Quiet all night, but I ask about birds and now you’re talking.”

“I just know not everyone likes birds as much as I do.”

“So? Not everyone likes vodka as much as I do. Never stopped me from drinking.”

Stan huffs a laugh.

“I don’t think birds and alcohol are exactly the same thing.”

Boris scoffs and waves a hand as if he’s waving Stan’s words away.

“Don’t let people stop you from doing what makes you happy. Talking about birds makes you happy. Talk about birds. Now,” he turns, pointing to another photograph. “what is this one?”

Stan eases himself on the bed next to the other boy, fighting back a smile, because when is the last time he was able to do something like this? When is the last time someone was truly interested in Stanley’s passion?

“The tyrant flycatcher,”

“HA! Tyrant! Are they mean little bastards?”

“No, they’re actually pretty shy. But they are one of the largest families of birds in the world. Over four hundred different species.”

Before he knows it, eight o’clock passes, then eight thirty, then nine. Stanley talks for hours, about birds and habitats and mating habits; his birdwatching days with his father and the best spots to find owls in Maine.

He falls asleep that way, on top of his covers whispering to this strange boy with his best friend’s face. For as heavy as the day has been, it’s the best night he can remember having in a long time.


End file.
